EPILOGUE
Snow falls like cotton balls in mid-February. Lary gazes out the window of her two-bedroom duplex with a lovely bay window overlooking the park. Timex nuzzles in her arms while Pizza rolls about on his back on her slippers.
“Here ya go,” a deep Scottish accent murmurs. Two flutes of champagne appear on the windowsill from a large male hand.
She turns to peck him on the cheek. “You’re a prince, Dude.”
“Okay, you can take the sheet off now,” he says, pointing to a three-foot mystery gift.
Dropping the dog, Lary yanks it off with glee to discover a classic red rose bush in a clay pot tied with a plaid ribbon.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says. While she throws her arms around him, he explains, “I don’t believe in cut flowers. Here today. Gone tomorrow. I like ones that can grow
